


Richer fruits

by sprl1199



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Murder on the Orient Express - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: Following the successful though tragic resolution of a case for the English military, Poirot experiences a moment of doubt about the role of justice. By a stroke of luck his good friend Hastings was able to accompany him to the Middle East.He helps.





	Richer fruits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bofoddity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofoddity/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, bofoddity! 
> 
> In preparation for watching the new Murder on the Orient Express movie I revisited the Suchet version. I've always been struck by Poirot's reactions in that version, particularly during the two original scenes in the beginning. This fic grew out of me idly wondering if part of Poirot's demeanor was down to witnessing a traumatic event, which in turn led me to consider the most effective way to address it. I hope you enjoy it.

“I say, Poirot, they seem awfully gratified by your help with their recent troubles. Perhaps you'll be up for an award.” In deference to the young officer who had just seen us off and was even then standing at parade rest on the dock as our ferry prepared for departure, I kept my voice low.

My companion had no such compunction. “Bah, Hastings,” said my friend, “You must know that for the awards I care nothing. A bit of metal, a ribbon of colors.” He gestured with a dismissive air that I tried not to apply to my own uniform, seldom worn but nonetheless maintained with a care that I'd always imagined Poirot appreciated. “Now gratitude,” he went on, “gratitude certainly is welcome and indeed expected, yes? I will take the captain's gratitude. Perhaps it will be useful one day.”

I found my little friend's Machiavellian statement in rather bad taste and told him as such, but he did not take the censure to heart.

“It is only practical, mon ami,” he said with a smile that found a reflecting twinkle in his eyes. For all of that, however, I fancied my friend distracted. “But with you, I know, it is always the romance that is important.”

The boat pulled away from the dock, and I was spared from answering by the resounding groan of the horn. We'd been placed on the ferry to Stamboul. Following a night’s rest we intended to see the sights of the city for a day or two before returning to London. Both of us had visited the city before, but for my part it had been several years, and Poirot, from what I'd gathered by his words upon the subject, had spent the majority of his previous visit in an especially odorous police station. We did not have any pressing engagements, and Poirot had acquiesced to my requests for a tour of the sights. I knew when I was being indulged--his lips twitched beneath his mustaches in a particular way when amused--but on the balance I found cheer at the thought of the outing with my friend outweighing any annoyance.

In truth it was sheer chance that had allowed me to join Poirot on this journey. I'd made plans with several surviving members of my regiment months before to meet in Kenya for a reunion and a bit of hunting, but influenza had laid up two of them and poorly performing stocks had felled a couple more. We'd agreed on a less ambitious gathering in the spring, and seeing my disappointment at the change in plans, Poirot had invited me along to solve a spot of trouble for the military.

It had been an interesting case that my friend had solved with his usual brilliance, though the ultimate resolution was not what any of us had wanted. I intended to put it to paper during the journey home, as I’d chronicled so many of our adventures, but at that moment I was primarily interested in rest and a spot of time with Poirot that wasn’t being interrupted by soldiers, crime, and international crises.

Poirot, by his manner as we settled down across from one another in the dining room, seemed to be of a similar mind. “Ah, at last we can converse without the eavesdroppers, mon ami.”

“Did you have something of some sensitivity to tell me?” I asked, amused by the expansive way in which he gestured around the empty room.

He returned the smile, but there was a degree of unnatural force about it, a minute hesitation. “You jest, Hastings, but the army camps, as I am sure you know, are no places for confidences, even those of the most benign.”

That I had to allow. "And ferries are the opposite, aren’t they?” I queried, keeping my tone light. “A gathering of strangers in transit, destined only to meet a single time and then never again barring some strange twist of fate.”

“There are those who would dispute you,” Poirot said dryly, “notably those who find themselves transferring with others to the large, prescribed routes for travel across the continent, but I take your meaning, as romantic as it is. Always with the poetry, Hastings!”

I’d thought my phrasing rather good, but I held my tongue in favor of commenting instead on what I’d just observed over Poirot’s shoulder. “Well, whether we meet them again or not, we’re about to miss our opportunity for confidences.”

A tall, fit gentleman of around fifty entered the dining car followed by a young woman, he with a bearing I couldn’t mistake for anything other than military, she with sleek hair that curled sedately against her chin. Poirot studied them in the reflection of his glass until they passed our table and he was able to observe them more naturally.

Seeing an opportunity to distract my friend from whatever strange mood had overtaken him, I leaned forward and dropped my voice. “Who do you think they are, Poirot?”

Poirot’s eyebrows rose. “If you are so curious, I suggest that you to ask them, mon ami.”

“No, I mean if you had to guess their occupations based upon their appearances, what sort of people do you think they are?”

Poirot shot me an annoyed glance. “I do not guess.”

“I think the man is a soldier,” I continued, unwilling to abandon the game so quickly and not relishing another of Poirot’s treatises on the quality of his little grey cells.

“But certainly he is a soldier. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would be able to tell that. The posture, it is always such.”

“Which country, do you suppose?”

Poirot smiled at me with gentle humor. “The cut of his suit is most certainly English, Hastings, as you no doubt are able to tell.”

It did seem a rather simplistic riddle to put to my celebrated friend, but I was encouraged by the smile. “And who is she? His secretary perhaps?” I dropped my voice even further and was gratified to see Poirot lean toward me. His eyes flickered to something over my shoulder.

“A governess,” my friend answered promptly. “Barring that, perhaps a nurse.”

“But why would a soldier travel with a governess? I haven’t seen any sign of children on the ferry.”

“They do not appear to be traveling together.” 

“They’re not sitting together?” I tried to emulate Poirot’s trick with the glass, but I was unable to make out anything but indistinct swaths of color that I suspected were reflections of the dining room curtains.

“No. She has taken the far table. He, two tables further.”

“I suppose they don’t know each other after all." I was disappointed at the game’s loss of dimension. “I thought when they entered together that they did.”

Poirot shrugged. “Perhaps they met in the hallway and entered together. It is dinner time after all, Hastings.”

The waiter appeared then, and in the activity of placing our orders, receiving and then enjoying our meal, I forgot to ask Poirot what exactly it was that made him suspect the woman was a governess. By the time we were enjoying our coffee both occupants had departed the dining room, the lady first and the man some few minutes later. Regardless, my friend’s countenance had seemed to steadily brighten over the meal and conversation, and I no longer saw the need to court distraction. We discussed our plans for the following days, and I expressed a desire to visit the suq which Poirot seemed willing to indulge. It was at the very end of the meal, the dining room empty save for the two of us and the infrequent, desulatory entrances of the waiter, that Poirot’s mood shifted.

I was recounting a memory of my time with my regiment, a humorous incident involving a case of mistaken identity and a baker’s daughter, when Poirot seemed to freeze. It lasted only a moment, a clock hand dragged long between the seconds, but it was out of order and therefore immediately concerning to me.

"Are you alright, Poirot?" I asked, wishing I'd asked sooner.

Whatever ease had been in my frIend's manner was wiped away. His mouth tightened as he fiddled with the cutlery. "The outcome of the case was regrettable," he said at last. 

"Poirot, You must know that what happened wasn't your fault. The lieutenant ended his own life. It wasn't taken from him." 

"Was it not, mon ami?" Poirot's voice was low, bright eyes cast down. "It is true that no one but the lieutenant held the weapon, but you must agree that his life as he knew it ended when his crime was revealed. Can it not be argued that, after all, I am responsible for his death?" 

"Good God, Poirot," I said, concerned by this uncharacteristic despondency "A girl died. Accident or not, her family deserved to know the truth." Seeing to our luggage, I hadn't been privy to the final leave taking between Poirot and our escort. "Did the captain say something to you about it?" 

Poirot waved the words away, but he straightened with a small shake of his shoulders and met my eyes with a smile. "It is of no importance, and of course you are correct, mon ami. Here, let us speak no more of it. Shall we order for you the whiskey?" 

But I'd been caught, as a hand strays to assess damage that has already been inspected on multiple occasions. Blood had spattered across Poirot's face when the lieutenant made his dramatic exit from this world, and Poirot's expression had frozen beneath it. To a stranger he would have appeared unperturbed, but I wasn't a stranger. He'd behaved with something approaching his normal manner afterward, and I respected his privacy to allow him to raise the incident with myself or not as he chose, but now I found myself thinking again of that moment: the gunshot, the shouts of those in the tent followed by that terrible silence, and Poirot's eyes, the green light of revelation subsumed by dawning horror. 

I touched his hand where it straightened the soup spoon. Fine boned and strong, it was chilled beneath my own. "It wasn't your fault." 

Poirot was started by my action, so startled that he did not remove his hand at once. "No, Hastings," he said gently. "But was it justice?" 

"I don't know," I said after thinking about it for some moments. Poirot’s hand was gently warming beneath my own, and I had some difficulty marshalling my thoughts to articulation. "But it might have been the closest we could get under the circumstances." 

Poirot looked at me for a long moment, wearing an expression I'd never seen on him before despite my years chronicling them. Then it dissolved, subsumed by the warmth I knew so well. He turned his hand over to twine his fingers with my own. "It is true, life is so often of the greatest disorder. Perhaps it is foolish of me to wish it to be otherwise."

"Hope is never foolish," I declared, and Poirot laughed softly.

"Ah, my Hastings," he said fondly. "Truly your heart is one without equal."

I was embarrassed then and mumbled something that I was unable to recall even as I uttered it. Mercifully the waiter returned to see if there was anything further we required. I extracted my hand, but the feel of Poirot's touch lingered, an imprint that seemed to brand my skin yet left no visible mark upon it.

As we left the dining room I mustered stopped Poirot with a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps the path to justice isn't always well marked, but there's no one I'd trust more to find order in chaos."

I almost said more: that while his brain was first rate, it was _his_ heart that to me was without equal, but my courage failed me at last, and my tongue tied. Poirot seemed to hear regardless. 

"Thank you, Hastings. Without you, mon ami, truly I would be lost in the darkness," he said, beaming.

But I knew, as I followed Poirot from the ferry into the bustling streets of Stamboul, that it was I who was lost.


End file.
